tv [untitled] August 11, 2012 2:00am-2:30am PDT
gem stone of war kings and people. and fear must without heaven, over a toga pot. that's import that war boil. that's bile that gag or jail roomy and oath and the war is cocked. air and fuel the plague and watch him of his hunter of ash guard down the stinking hole. they were shacked up from to be done. >> [applause].
>> this house of hunger, for the american kids who go to sleep each night without supper. this house of hunger has millions of kids in it. breakfast and lunch is all their worth. famished of billions of bucks in them. what pretty prophets have set before king's death. they stink with the stench of unmitigated treaty. their indifference included in their digital speeds. while those kids lie in bed without a cup of bullion in
their head. also kill the children, american you shootful. and the murders you plant in your own backyard. keep insisting your democracy. but in the starving darkness, those sad, lost eyes know the truths of your lies that you sold all the marbles in their little sacks to the bullies who applaud because they won't give them back. you have stolen the bread that cried from their mouths and turned it into dirty dough. when finally they manage to fall asleep, their dreams cause
you the haunted house. the spell of the sun to burn you down so that greeds flee and steal the good things for hungry little bellies to eat. between the page, with the heart and the mind, wrestling upon it. and the year which later will receive those limbs of light as perfect harmony. there's a stillness who's volume speaks word of words
defiant. treasures of the unstable. secrets of the heavy enchantment and the never ending gathering at the lips of the kiss of poem. now, >> [applause]. >> now, i understand them causing an enormous amount of anguish of my voice. i brought my girlfriend. she is going to read 3 poems to you so you get another dimention of my voice. please welcome, agnes ford >> the house of the setting sun.
the comrade again and the poorist way wave you. to the red flag. i put my mount to your misery new orleans. here, war lies piles so high. this floating prison of a cementary cries of range. this delta lies on its side. rows and rows upon it's own government and crushed. summertime is over and the living is dead. and around midnight all hopes are looted. no one will ever come clean of
the katrina of the new orleans and the stinking house of the setting sun. but it's the black and the blue of the loving on the shoes, let alone a dime or water, america, you are always scotched earth in our mouth. always a rain of disaster of streams of our broken eyes. now the rags are the most turn. our pores the poorest that can be worn in the souls shop. now that all is lost and there is only nothing to lose.
long live the courage and the poor. they begin to waiver. [applause]. >> vennetia. i was enranged at your body enettia. chicanery that cried out of an awfulor gast. slowly i found you should side streets where you practice a strolling stillness without any engine sounds and the skies turning on into color and then
eternal magnificence of twilight, it accompanies your every move and theirs doubt about it, you are more adorable without the car wrapped around you, where you can be what you are. walking water. that gently laps. i have come to you this midnight and lane down in your black body with it's soft red blush and pulled the starkly blue cover over a cheek or moon blushing through the midst. and the final for me. juna. that's juna bomb. that she lived on board avenue.
3 blocks away from the street isn't bronx i grew up on. just what are you getting out june abonus, that an alphabet, i would be visiting on a masterpiece and writing a bistro of poems. scones. 47 years later. she has long since ash, the world has become unmitigated cash. a woman gazing into the face of a cell phone. i gave me lover a cherry and lived on. endure these bitter hips and
hot heads and the empty collapse. night will still holdup after all these years. summer snap. >> virginia tech. the loner is here. the one who stopped listening. the one with the hidden fuse. with the fist. with the hole in his heart. with the cool guns, the one who blasts away. who kills just because. who kills as well because there's nothing left but the dead. kills himself. suicide on top of all these
kills and now you know, what a mar gin in old baghdad in the wrong place at the wrong time why you're mourning is going in one ear of the deaf tomorrow. and out the deafening utter. air cane. one, the sorrow these many months isn't because celebrities put eyes all over my body as i was in the u.s. again. not the other america. it comes from the footprint of
a kick stab in my back. got riding a bus to a reading with some really destitute brothers and sisters in a 16, 3 office space. i am sitting in the rear of the bus reading a translation of the book of the concealed mystery. my eyes are risen from a black woman standing and talking on her cell phone. i voice decibeled, latino black and white workers. when i arrive, i accidentally grace her sleeve with an excuse me. she pushed me.
shouts don't touch me with hate red and what the hell do you think you did to me. the eyes coiled and in denial or at once and set to spring. when my shoulders i bear a gentle but insistent arms and turning from a black man, you don't want to go here. here's your stop. he leads me to the stair well, but no sooner do i begin descending when i feel myself hurtled down my a kick to my back falling and landing up a
level on my feet as the door closes with a snicker and the bus pulls away. from my amazement what they do, the latina asks in startled urgency on the sidewalk. and home wards make me realize, i am 72. for the first time in my life. 2. one could i suppose chaplin it a way. how for no reason suddenly one is popped or clobbered with the cane. kicked in the ass for a slap stick for silence. but it just happens,
humiliation sounds very depth. just happens, a wound knows no depth of time and not so random is the karma of lungs breezing arkayicly. i didn't know the volatility of the hatred, i could only think dike. but if you prophecy be true that it will be reasoned. and reasoned must find it's violence in order to be for violence is the memory a horror
carried by the soul of the blood to sect. she, a violent of resistance is also a violence for, if she said or of me. why not take all of me and shove it up your ass because you can just about sit with your lips. because i am inside you now in violation of you and are american filthy crumb of a loaf of people. i am here and everywhere. no matter how hold you will always be the snot nosed with the shame spread over your brains from a rumble doubt of
gang bang wooden zips where the real thing went down on haight then ran in torn threads of a dead dawn to bring hot rolls and milk to 2 kids in a dump near palieu. 3, chalk it up like the gutters and walls of our breaths. between tilted ties singing the day is night and the night moves inside this long, lonesome bread of glues.
don't climb to the top. you can fall in and we'll never again find you. so many come at the midnight taint. paint the world where the sunshine aid ain't. go back to what beginning? a serial suck. a kick in the butt. oh, derelict devil in this hell's night. stay carton. be full of disstress. you can pull the race are card out of your hat. see the mother of memories. the ors slide of the richness.
know and your can't pull the race card out of the-bra neither. if she pushed you and kicked you, curse and spit you who touched her raped her mother and grandmother. you can't do this . we the thunder that never stopped shaking rooms. we are born to hate. hate. learn to hate. was wife and then that white didn't mean. or shinola. just meaningless.
feeding the rebirth where i be. i and you be. you and nothing will ever be between, but tragic race disgrace. cause you and i are on 2 to be slaves. black and white. that's why. the consumer trees grow long, long limbs. there's money in rape and murder. bloody blood talk. war though. war duh. everyone riding hump back in
and money tyranny and be what revels that has to be. [applause]. >> i will read one more poem. and i will read it, it's a title poem. all that's left. all that's left in the world. whether in cuba venezuela, bolivia. as well as in china, japan, the united states europe. the middle east. africa. all of them cannot despise
but when comes the cry? when will it really happen as death is peace? when can i truly die. you will never know yet you may have already and this life is your way of paying hommage to the power that loves and you left you with the taste of immortality on your lips. nothing mystical. no cries. power, your way. or buddha in the wings. even lying on your back, you are mocking. this is not a cynical, or
at age of 3 moved to missouri and returned when she was 12 years old. patricia grew up with segregation and injustices which she writes about. she spent many countless hours in the nashville public library. it was her family life that was bountiful and flowing with tales told by her story telling grandfather. raised with love of reading and oral tradition. graduated from tennessee state and degree in english in 1964. she married her childhood friend on december 12. they are the parents of fredrick and twins robert and john. her education continued with a master's degree in early childhood literature, and programming in 1975 from
webster university. patricia has a successful career as a teacher and children's book editor. she changed careers to become a full time writer of children and young adult books. her goal is to create books for and about african-americans. i write because there is a need to have books for, by and about the african-american experience and how we helped to develop this country. i present to you patricia makinsik heart of literacy. >> i am from st. louis, missouri. a lot of you think i have said it in correctly when i said missouri. you think i got it slid into my southern dialect, right? no. i was n